


Walk of Shame

by LuxaLucifer



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Anal Sex, Crossfaction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:51:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6307282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxaLucifer/pseuds/LuxaLucifer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are explosions everywhere and the air is filled with bullets, but the only thing Sniper can look at is Spy.</p><p>At first it’s simple, just watching from his various crow’s nests, scope trained on him as he turns into half of Mick’s team, dispatching them with cowardly stabs to the back and cheap subterfuge. Mick sees all of this, only moving to keep his eye on the other man. He keeps forgetting to pull the trigger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk of Shame

**Author's Note:**

> I still don't have a favorite TF2 ship, so I'm dabbling, looking for one...and it was coincidentally a good time to do it, as it's SniperSpy week on tumblr this week. So here you are.

There are explosions everywhere and the air is filled with bullets, but the only one Sniper can look at is Spy.

At first it’s simple, just watching from his various crow’s nests, scope trained on him as he turns into half of Mick’s team, dispatching them with cowardly stabs to the back and cheap subterfuge. Mick sees all of this, only moving to keep his eye on the other man. He keeps forgetting to pull the trigger.

It continues this way until he blinks, and suddenly Spy is gone. Mick curses, searching for the illusive man, telling himself that this is his own foolishness for not shooting when he had the chance…the chances, really. He’s been watching Spy long enough that his numbers are dropping fast. He’s off his game, and all because of the stupid spook.

“You imbecile,” hisses a voice in his ear.

“Speak of the devil,” he grunts, forcing himself to stay relaxed.

“Oh, you were speaking of me?”

Mick feels like a bloody idiot nearly instantly. He still doesn’t move except for those unconscious muscles that so love to betray him. Spy knows he can’t help the slight twitch, but he laughs anyway. He wouldn’t be Spy if he didn’t.

“You’re off your game.”

“I’ve been distracted,” says Mick.

“Oh? By what?”

“You,” says Mick, because even though he’s RED and Spy’s BLU, they still find time for this back-and-forth, this little game of their own that leads to such satisfying conclusions. Well, sometimes to satisfying conclusions. Sometimes Spy can be a little shit.

Mick hopes that’s not where they’re headed now. “What’re you thinking?” he growls, because even when he spots the shimmer of a cloak or the glint of a knife, he cannot always read that balaclava clad French fuck.

“I am thinking that you are going to make yourself the ridicule of your team at this rate,” says Spy loftily, pulling a lighter out of one of his many invisible pockets and pressing a cigarette between his teeth. The familiar waft of pretentious smoke hits Mick’s nostrils. “You cannot simply watch me all day, no matter how lovely you find the sight to be.”

Mick’s temper flares. “Don’t assume you know anything about me, spook,” he grunts, brows furrowed. “I’m still plenty fine with lodging a bullet right in your smirking face.”

“Are you? Then get to it.”

Mick stares at Spy. Spy stares back, brandishing a grin so self-assured that Mick knows Spy believes he will not do it, not at this range. And worse, Spy is right.

“You want me to blow your entire bloody head off at this range? I ain’t carrying anything—“

Spy hands him his revolver. Sniper stares at the polished steel barrel, at the ivory handle. Mick points it at Spy, but he can’t bring himself to shoot it. At least his hands don’t shake. That would be much worse.

Spy’s triumphant laugh is cut off by a single sentence of Mick’s as he tosses the revolver back. “How’s your own scoreboard looking right now?”

Spy’s expression instantly sours, and Mick allows himself a smirk of his own. Of course the spook wouldn’t think of that. “You ready to be mocked by your own team too, mate?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. You’ve got that plenty covered.”

Spy paces back and forth, shoulders squared as he thinks. “Well, if you are fucked, and I am fucked, then how about we fuck?”

“That’s the worst pick-up line I’ve heard in a long while.”

“And?”

“Sounds bloody good to me.”

Spy chuckles at that. “I knew you would be amenable to my idea.”

“Oh, yeah, ‘cause it’s totally original, right? I’ve never seen anyone think of the idea of fucking during battle. Medic and Engineer are always ‘meetin’ at the dispensers’ for completely innocent purposes.”

Spy looks surprised for a moment before he slides his unaffected mask back into place. “I had not realized they—“

Mick’s eyebrows shoot up. “You didn’t know? This is bloody hilarious! The Spy didn’t know about the little science party those blokes like to get up to.”

“I do not concentrate my attentions on the sexual liaisons of the enemy team!”

“My cock would say different.”

“It already is,” says Spy. “You’re speaking with it!”

“Whose idea was this?” is Mick’s grunted retort.

Spy stares at him. “Get up,” he hisses. “If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this right. I will not have that cheap-suited fake walk in on us mid-coitus.”

Sniper snorts at Spy’s description of the RED version of himself, standing and slinging his rifle over his shoulder. They’re both going to be the laughingstock of their respective teams, but that’s okay, as Spy implied, as long as it’s both of them. Mick can’t help but wonder if Medic and Engineer will have similar dips in their tallies as well.

Mick follows Spy, keeping an eye out for anyone who might wonder why two men of a different team are so calmly walking in line. Mick has his kukri in his hand, and Spy his own knife, both men ready to feign hostility at a moment’s notice.

The fighting has lulled as both teams set up for another round, but Mick is still nervous as Spy leads him deeper into RED territory. He finds the hair on his neck raised as he turns his gaze from side to side, making sure no one is around. Spy seems to find his discomfort mildly amusing, but doesn’t comment on it. Sniper is tempted to ask Spy how _he_ would feel, but he knows it would be futile; Spy is perfectly comfortable deep in the lair of his enemy, pretending to belong. It’s in his job description.

This is not in Sniper’s job description. He can feel his palms slicking against his pants, sweat threatening to destroy what little of his cool he has left. They walk past rotting wood and abandoned piles of lumber Every second Sniper expects someone to respawn and walk right into him, shooting him in the chest, as is their job. This is definitely not Mick’s job.

“We are here,” says Spy, pulling a garage door up with deceivingly strong fingers. “Get in, before someone sees.”

Mick looks in horror at what’s on the other side. “You’ve gotta be pulling my bloody leg,” he says, stepping back. “We can’t fuck in there!”

Spy shrugs as he walks into the room. The walls are lined with medical cabinets, the floor tiled. There are a few rooms, Sniper can tell, that lead to equipment at the side. Mick has a feeling that if he were to examine them, they would all be very familiar to him, everything except for the color. And if he were to follow the room back, he would find the respawn center.

“Spy,” he says. “I can’t go in here! This is…that’s illegal!”

Spy laughs at that, or maybe he laughs at Mick’s red face. “As though it is not against the rules to be fraternizing like this in the first place? You and I are breaking many more rules than this today, both the ones set by our esteemed employers and the host country in which we fight our endless battles.”

“But this is your—I can’t go in here!”

“Our respawn point, yes. No one will ever expect you. It is the perfect way to hide in plain sight, no?”

“You stupid French fuck,” mutters Mick, stepping over the line that marks respawn like it’s a snake ready to bite. Honestly, he would rather face the snake. A snake can’t fire you, or shove you into an incinerator because you betrayed her boss. Mick likes his current proximity to incinerators, and he’s hoping not to get any closer to them.

Spy rolls his eyes. “You are not dead, yes? Can we move on? I do not think anyone is pitching themselves off a cliff right now, but it is better to get you out of the way.”

Mick follows Spy out of the main room with its sterile white walls and into a side room, one with rows of bunks and a sink or two. It seems practically unused, just like the version in Mick’s own respawn point. None of them stay injured long enough to need it, and they rarely fight into the night, so they never need to sleep here.

Spy shuts the doors behind them. “Clothes off,” he orders, and while Mick shoots him a half-assed glare as he begins undressing, he doesn’t argue. Not when the spook is using that tone of his that sounds more like a cigarette commercial than the vain, arrogant Spy that haunts his dreams. Not when his voice sounds like thick water over grainy riverbeds, or the way it feels down your throat when you swallow slightly scalding hot chocolate.

When Mick is naked, Spy shoves his clothes and weapons in a closet, leaving Sniper standing there, shivering. “This some kind of enemy plan to catch me in the nude?” he hears himself say, cheeks warming “I ain’t real fond of this too far!”

“If only I had thought of that before,” says Spy. “No, sadly I am only here to fornicate. What a lovely word, that. And they say the English language is full of pointless words.”

“You’re the only person I’ve ever heard say that.”

“They say it, I promise you that.”

Sniper is done with this banter. He is standing buck naked in the heart of the enemy’s base, something that could lose him his job and maybe his life. He’s got an unbearable Frenchman staring at him with a mixture of unbridled lust and condescension. He’s just about had it.

He closes the space between them, pressing their lips today in a heady mix of anger and desire, fingers moving to grip Spy’s suit. He wants to take that blue suit and rip it, to tear it so that Spy will drop his façade, either to be angry at what Sniper, like some wild Australian animal, has done to his suit, or to be as self-conscious as Mick is right now.

But Spy is never self-conscious, not even when nude. Especially not when nude. Mick remembers this as Spy dislodges Mick’s needy grip and strips himself off his clothing. His lean, muscular body presses up against Sniper’s before long, and they spend several minutes kissing, their stomachs pressed flat against each other as they each steal the other man’s breath away.

Spy is trying to push Sniper against the wall, while Sniper is trying to push Spy to one of the beds. They struggle with this for a moment, a quiet war of two wills, before Mick finally wins and shoves Spy onto a cot with a grunt and a wicked grin.

“I like it when you smile like that,” says Spy so calmly one might miss the way his chest is rising up and down quicker than normal, his spook’s heart beating fast.

“I didn’t know you liked anything about me,” is Sniper’s growled response as he takes in the man spread out below him. Spy is all bony limbs, a mass of hard edges that combine to make a man more attractive than Mick thought possible, even without seeing the man’s face. He’d never tell Spy that though; his ego might get so big it would finally burst.

“You would be surprised,” says Spy, so quietly Mick would miss it if he were anyone else. He smiles, deciding not to push the issue as he presses a series of kisses to Spy’s covered cheek. They soon become a trail that leads down his jaw and onto his neck, where the kisses become a series of sucking and biting meant to leave marks.

“You look damn good like this,” he says, unconsciously returning Spy’s compliment. “All laid out for me.”

Spy stretches leisurely, the way a cat might. He spreads his legs slightly, drawing attention to a part of him Sniper hasn’t gotten to yet. Sniper isn’t taking the bait. He returns to his ministrations, continuing his trail down his collarbones and to his finely haired chest. He keeps at him, slow and patient, until Spy is letting out soft gasps that spark something in Mick, a drive to keep going until the man below him is writhing in need.

He decides to do just that. His cock throbs at the very thought, half-hard between his legs. Spy can see some change in Sniper and lets out his first moan, a throaty noise that only gets Sniper going more.

When he presses his face to Spy he can feel that rabbit heartbeat of his, a betrayal of his still somewhat calm exterior. Mick listens to that heart race and thinks about how he’s deep in the enemy base, and soon he’s going to be deep in the enemy. It’s with that thought in mind that he lightly drags his stubble across Spy’s chest, watching his reaction. The man under him shivers, biting his lip. Mick can’t help but grin.

“Wipe that smirk off your face, you dirty bushman.”

The words mean nothing to Sniper, not the way Spy says them, his voice trembling ever-so-slightly. Mick responds by running his large, calloused hands over Spy’s sides, dragging them slowly until their rough edges against Spy’s smooth skin have the spook shivering. It’s a bit like battle, this way of having sex; he teases and taunts until the person under him is a mess, a ball of need, except with Spy he just wants to take him so hard that the other man will feel Mick for days.

He keeps this pace up for what must be a torturously long time for Spy, spending the minutes by treating every inch of his skin except for his cock with affection, lavishing him with attention but never giving what Spy makes more and more clear that he wants with every moan and muttered French curse.

He can’t stop from chuckling now and again at Spy’s reddening cheeks, visible from under the mask. When he raises his hand to it, he finds the fabric soaked with sweat. He nearly suggests taking it off, but he can’t. He’s not going to risk that obviously vulnerable sneer he got the only time he suggested it before.

“Take my mask off,” says Spy, struggling with the English. “Take it off! It is too…too warm! Far too warm!” His accent is so thick Mick can hardly understand him.

Sniper pauses to make sure that Spy really knows what he’s saying, but he regrets it instantly as Spy begins removing the mask himself. He covers his hands with Sniper’s own, fingers scrabbling under his mask for purchase in the damp fabric. He pulls it over his hair, revealing a face exactly as handsome as Sniper was expecting, all good bone structure and high cheekbones. There is a slight tan over the skin that stays exposed to the sun, but all in all, it is strange and overwhelmingly pleasant to see those heavy-lipped eyes and full lips connected with the rest of his face. 

“Stop gawking and get to fucking me,” murmurs Spy. “I did not take the mask off simply so you could stare at me.”

“My wish is your command,” Mick growls. He doesn’t have any lube on him, and if he did it would be shoved into a closet with the rest of his clothes. Spy is waiting on him, though, so he spits liberally on his hands and uses it to slick himself up, watching Spy’s eyes dilate with lust in response. A good sign.

He nearly forgets to stretch the spook out first, a testament to how distracting the heat in his groin is. As much as he loves the thought of plunging straight into him, watching the other man scream with pain and pleasure in equal doses, they can’t attract that much attention.

He’s still quick about it though, those digits calloused from his rifle making their way into Spy with the same intensity as he had lavished his body with kisses, but without any of the patience. Sniper realizes suddenly that his slow attentions must have cost them even more kills, but he can’t be bothered to care when he’s got two fingers halfway up a Frenchman’s clenched ass.

He draws them out, spitting on his hands again so he can make sure to have as much lubrication as he can. He lines himself up against Spy, unable to resist the urge to rub himself up against the cleft of his ass before he does so, before teasing his entrance with the broad head of his cock. The sensation must be exquisite, Sniper thinks with a smirk, as Spy writhes below him.

“You stupid bushman! Get in me!”

“I don’t take orders from you,” he says, voice so low he can hear the grain with every syllable.

So can Spy, and he shudders visibly. He looks like he’s about to open his mouth and say something, but decides better of it. Mick couldn’t ask for anything better. He leans down and presses a kiss to his hip, one that quickly turns into a red mark.

“Ready?” he says.

Spy may be without his balaclava, but there is still a mask of lust across his face, contorting his features into something beautiful and needy, something that makes Mick’s breath disappear and his cock throb.

He pushes into Spy finally, the tight, barely lubed walls around him threatening to buckle his knees. He feels incredible, as always, and he goes slowly so that the other man will feel the same way, making sure to find a balance between too fast and too slow. He balances an arm on either side of Spy, their chests nearly touching, while his other hand has Spy’s hip in an iron-tight grip.

“You feel bloody fantastic,” he says, half words, half guttural moan.

“The same to you!” is the response, in a pitch higher than normal, a voice from a man who is losing the last semblance of his cool.

When Sniper is all the way inside Spy, his cock enveloped in hot, tight walls that seem to grip him in every way at once, he spends a moment just looking at Spy, seeing the way his black hair, marked with gray, lays sweat-stained against his forehead. He isn’t sure how to express in words what seeing Spy’s face makes him feel, so he pulls back and begins thrusting.

It’s slow at first, but that doesn’t last long. He keeps forgetting that the time for that is past now. Spy doesn’t need slow; he needs to be fucked hard with Sniper’s cock, a desire that Mick is more than willing to fill. The pace he sets soon has his muscles straining, but he doesn’t care. The noises Spy is making beneath him are more than worth it.

He changes his position slightly, aiming for that spot inside Spy that makes him forget the English language. He knows the moment he hits it by the way Spy’s eyes pop open and his head is thrown so far back that all Sniper can see of him is his neck. Every time he gets Spy this debauched, he wishes he knew French.

He can’t hold out much longer, not at the pace he’s setting, not the way he’s pounding the Frenchman with more energy than he gives anything but work. Both his hands are gripping his hips hard enough to leave bruises now, and his cock is stiff and ready inside Spy. He’s in such a state that he can’t figure out if the heat inside him is coming from his chest or his head or his cock, only that it’s spreading fast and taking the last of his resolve with it.

“Please,” says Spy, and Sniper realizes that he’s begging fingers scrabbling for purchase against the rough cot. “Please! Touch me!” The rest is lost in a babble of French, but Mick has the gist, and he loses his momentum slightly in favor of reaching a hand to Spy’s cock, wrapping his fingers around it and pumping it in pace to his thrusts.

The feel of the heavy cock in his hand and the slap of his balls against Spy’s ass do him in. Sniper bites Spy’s shoulder as he comes inside Spy to prevent himself from yelling loud enough that anyone nearby will hear them. Spy comes a moment later, splattering the both of them with his seed as Mick collapses next to him.

“That was bloody great,” he says gruffly.

“It was fine,” says Spy.

Mick snorts. “It was bloody great, and you know it.”

Spy is already reaching for his mask, but he stops long enough to give Mick a smile wide enough that the balaclava would cover at least part of it. Mick can’t help but smile back.

“It was fairly good,” admits Spy. “We must do this again sometime.” He always says that. Mick thinks it’s funny, although he isn’t entirely sure why. Maybe just because it’s so strangely formal. Either way, it’s like a promise.

Spy suddenly freezes. “Merde,” he whispers, and Sniper tenses up on instinct.

“What’s wrong?”

“We seemed to have missed the end of the day’s fighting. My team is out there.”

Spy stands, grabbing his underclothes as he walks and opening the door just enough to peer through it. “You’re in luck,” he says. “The Blue Sniper isn’t out there.”

Mick blinks in surprise. “You got a spare set of uniforms in this room, then?”

Spy’s smile turns wicked. “No, I don’t. You’ll have to go out there as is. Hopefully they will chalk it up to Australian eccentricities.”

Sniper stares at him, going through all the possible ways he can get out of this situation. He reluctantly comes to the same conclusion. He isn’t going to be happy about it, though.

He grabs Spy’s undershirt from the grinning man, wiping himself off with it. Spy’s expression falls, but only slightly.

“See ya around,” he says, preparing to open the door.

“Wait,” says Spy.

Sniper turns, curious. Spy pulls him in for a kiss, pressing their lips together for a much more chase peck than he’s used to from the spook. He gives him an awkward smile in return. “You know, I think they’re showing a movie in town, the two of us could—”

“Oh shut up,” says Spy, smacking him across the ass with his undershirt.

It’s only halfway through his walk of shame, with the BLU team hollering about his private bits being displayed for all to see, that Mick opens his hand and sees a tiny slip of paper that says “Teufort Theater: 9:30” in impeccable handwriting. While Sniper isn’t sure anything is playing at that time, it sure does take the sting out of the enemy team seeing his junk.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Review please! :)


End file.
